


it takes my breath away (what you do so naturally)

by smithens



Series: what you do so naturally [1]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Conversion/Aversion Therapy, Drabble Sequence, Eventual Happy Ending, Fix-It, Graphic Depictions of Illness, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Mild Sexual Content, Queer Culture, Season/Series 05, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:14:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25889419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: A missed train, a chance encounter, a chosen path.It's not so difficult as Thomas was afraid it would be.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Chris Webster
Series: what you do so naturally [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1913407
Comments: 55
Kudos: 91





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Julesss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julesss/gifts).



> what's another wip among friends
> 
> the title is from [naturally by selena gomez & the scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z3NzyAW6gjw) lol in my defense i did a dance to it like a decade ago so it lives rent free in my brain, just like every other song i've had choreography for. and it came on in the car bc i was listening to my [Songs I Heard In Competition Jazz Technique Classes Between The Years Of 2008 And 2015](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2lbLy6jj7EFqdWjYZRAopz?si=j_RnPa-_QdSrYiyJS9jScA) playlist. this playlist also has one direction and like, meghan trainor on it, so it could be worse
> 
> emetophobia warning for this chapter

He's meant to change trains in York.

Just as the train's pulling into Darlington—at about the time he should've been arriving at Downton, if he'd done it right—he realises he didn't. Bloody Darlington. _How do you forget a thing like that,_ he chastises himself, _you were awake, what's your fucking excuse._

Anything he can think of won't be good enough for Carson. 

Nothing's good enough where he's concerned.

Maybe he _wasn't_ awake... He can't remember, is the thing. _Either you just woke up or you didn't._

Steam billows outside. A whistle blows.

Thomas alights, because he has to.

*

After that he doesn't trust himself to go back another way, and there are no trains left to Thirsk or anywhere else he knows well enough to try.

So he switches platforms and gets the next one headed toward the direction he came from.

Couldn't afford to pay a fine, if he had to, but he gets lucky.

When he arrives there're still people bustling about in York Station, enough that the noise is too loud and the light is too much and he'd really not mind it if he went (back?) to sleep, but he's got somewhere to be.

*

Turns out the trains back to Downton have stopped, but he's got time before the last bus.

Or so he's telling himself.

Things to do first, though. The last time he was in a public toilet it was for very different purposes than this. Funnily enough, that was just a couple of days ago. 

Thinking about it now makes him feel sick. 

He's felt sick all _day._

Thomas presses his hand flat up against the wall and retches, chest heaving, metal on his tongue, throat full of bile and saliva; he spits, after.

At least he's getting his money's worth.

*

Spends so much time vomiting he misses the bloody coach, too.

Maybe he should just give up. Hand in his notice. _I'm afraid my old man passed tonight, Mr Carson, and my poor mother needs me more than does the Earl of Grantham…_

Baxter would give him away, of course. Anything to tarnish his reputation at the house, now she doesn't need him protecting her anymore. She's probably already started. He's been gone long enough, hasn't he? He'll bet she's told all his secrets to Molesley already. 

_Always kind._

What a joke. 

He'd be glad, seeing him now. Proud, even.

*

He'll have to show up at Downton first thing—there's a milk train, it'll get him in before downstairs breakfast, but he'd better cable, first. He can make something up.

There's a pub right by the station.

He can't exactly afford to pay for a night somewhere, but he's not about to sleep in the bloody street, and he's not young anymore, neither. If he was young he'd have better options. If he was young he'd…

Well, he wouldn't know where to go. If he was. 

Doesn't matter, though, does it? Because he's not, and he never will be again.

*

It had been foolish to think any of this would be easy: nothing ever is, after all. Still, at the clinic they'd made it sound like it wasn't going to be very much trouble at all, as long as he was a good boy and did as he was told.

So, that's what he'll do. No slacking. He may be many things, but he is not the sort of bloke who does things by halves.

He can't hold the syringe without his hand shaking.

Later, his head is heavy, and he falls asleep before it can even hit the pillow.

*

A few hours later he wakes up with pressure in his throat again. He only makes it to the wash basin before he's heaving again, acid burning his throat, stomach convulsing, but all that's coming out of his mouth is clear. 

He doesn't remember _much,_ as far as the events of the day go, but he's almost positive he hasn't had proper food since breakfast. No solving that problem now, though. Besides, there's no chance of him keeping much down, the way he's been. More than likely it's for the best if his stomach stays empty.

He's not hungry anyway.

*

There's a knock up. If he asked for it he almost wishes he hadn't—but he's already late enough as it is.

He wonders how well they all got by, without him.

Last night he hadn't undressed before falling asleep. His clothes smell of vomit.

That won't do.

Washroom, bedroom, washroom, bedroom. He doesn't nick himself shaving, miraculously. Dressing himself is easy.

And why should any of that be unusual? It's the normal way of things.

On his walk to the station he tips his hat at every (solo, he's got a brain) woman he passes. A few even smile.

*

"Need a hand?"

"No, thank you."

"My job, isn't it?" 

He's not a porter. No livery. Thomas isn't stupid, and he attempts to indicate this with a twist of his lip.

"'Course, I know more about crates than cases," the man goes on. 

Freight loader, then. The unrelenting smile on his face makes his head sore. 

He grips the handle of his case even tighter.

It feels as if it might slip through his fingers… 

Thomas sways, but the bloke is quick on his feet; he catches him by the elbow.

They stare at each other.

"Easy..."

_You're embarrassing yourself._

*

Thomas scrambles back to his feet. 

After that performance he almost can't blame the man for staring at him like that, but he will do even so.

"Easy," he repeats. "I've got you." Sincerely. He lets go of him; Thomas stares at the new rumple in his suitjacket. His head swims. Part of him recognises that this is ridiculous; most of him just wants to have a nap.

No chance of that anytime soon.

He draws his eyes back up. 

He's an absolute stranger. A nobody. Only something about him is familiar…

"Here, let me."

For some reason Thomas does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am gonna update other things but i just moved across the country and i've got protracted rona (147 days baby) so most of the time i look like this: 😪
> 
> more tags 2 be added
> 
> shoutout to the [association of gay & lesbian psychiatrists](https://www.aglp.org/index.htm), an organisation (based in but not limited to the usa) dedicated to giving appropriate and affirming mental health care to lgbt+ people


	2. Chapter 2

Nobody says anything about how he's later than he said he'd be, not even Mrs Hughes, who's been eyeing him shrewdly ever since she answered the door.

As breakfast is wrapping up, she says, "you're back earlier than we'd expected."

"Yes, well, I…" 

...earlier. Was that what she'd said? Earlier?

Well.

"He's doing much better," he answers, not looking at her or at anybody else, certainly not at Mr Carson, "I thought I might be more needed here."

Only Mr Carson harrumphs, and Thomas looks up from his hands too soon.

The moment he does, Miss Baxter lowers her eyes.

*

He never did send that cable, did he? Lucky he wasn't late after all. Somebody might've gotten the wrong idea.

The day passes uneventfully.

Then another.

And then another.

They just keep coming and going.

He does his best, with the pills and the injections, but he's been feeling more and more muddled since the treatment. No sign of improvement. Maybe he's not trying hard enough.

That's what they'd told him, after all. It's all up to him in the end… how well he does or doesn't. If he wants it enough...

Well, he knows what he wants, doesn't he.

*

At the clinic they'd seemed more interested in what he's done with men than what he'd like to do with women, but it's them he cares about.

Young Miss Sybbie is getting chattier with every day that passes. Master George is toddling all over the place, and when he's not _toddling_ he's climbing. 

They're old enough to ask him for things, now. 

Funny how their parents have all this time for leisure at their hands and yet they hardly spend three hours a day with their own children. He'd never. He wasn't raised like that. People take everything for granted.

*

Only he knows that no matter how much the children upstairs seem to like him (he hopes they do even half as much as they act like) they're just a substitute in the end. Even so, they're the only people in this house who much care about him at all... Miss Baxter certainly likes to pretend, but he knows what she's capable of. What's got her fussing now all of the sudden when she never bothered before? Pity? No thank you. 

_What's the matter with you?_

So he'd like to have what everybody else can. 

What's so bad about that?

*

The dreams are unbearable. _Best not to sleep,_ he thinks, lying awake in the early morning, moonbeams through the skylights, eyelids heavy...

_"Have they great need of you, at Grantham House?"_

_"I'm good at my job," Thomas insists._

_"But I can think of others that might suit you better," purrs Philip, hands loving as they coast down his chest, toward his hips… his thighs…_

_Thomas shivers._

_"...can't you?"_

_His touch is..._

He gasps himself awake, the stench of burning in his nose, the ghost of a shock through his limbs.

It's painful, but not as much as being alone is.

*

Downstairs people start staring; up nobody notices… and they bloody well should not. _You're furniture,_ he tells himself, as he pulls out a chair for Lady Edith, who sweeps into luncheon late, straw in her hair.

 _Furniture,_ as he holds open the door for the latest bunch of men-looking-in-on-Lady-Mary, eyes straight ahead.

 _Furniture,_ as he hands Lord Grantham the evening post. No telegrams. Nothing of note to announce.

 _Furniture,_ as Lady Mary's eyes flicker up to him and then down and away again as he pours her wine, unbothered.

 _Furniture,_ as the room begins to...

"Barrow, are you quite well?"

*

So he can't do his job properly now neither?

What's he got going for him, then? Whatever he's putting himself through isn't working fast as it should be… and The Dowager Countess, of all people, was the first to see anything amiss. What can he expect from Carson and the rest, after such a scene? It's bad manners, drawing attention to the servants. Her Ladyship should know better. 

He's following the directions to the letter, though. He thinks maybe it's working. It has to be. He spent enough on it, after all...

The doors this'll open. 

The freedom he'll have.

*

Sleep hurts. Swelling isn't a good sign but he can manage it on his own. It's his own fault he can't use the damn thing properly. Figures he did it to himself.

Sleep _hurts,_ but he's so tired...

_"I wonder if we might be different in the same way."_

_"Sir?"_

_Ahead of them Nurse Crawley turns back over her shoulder. She tilts her head at him._ See? _says that smile, that look in her eyes._ I told you!

_"What do you think, Corporal?"_

_Lieutenant Courtenay stumbles; he reaches out…_

Thomas makes it to the lavatory but not to the basin. 

*

_...germs growing in the wounds produce poisonous substances, which are absorbed into the body and produce constitutional symptoms, such as fever, etc.; moreover, if unchecked, blood-poisoning may be set up and death result. The great importance of keeping all wounds aseptic must therefore be obvious…_

He'd like to tear the book up and chuck it out the window.

Instead he closes it gently and sticks it back on the shelf in his wardrobe, where it can stay nice and comfortable with Pip, Squeak and Wilfred til he'd like to punish himself with it some more. Always there for another day. 

*

"...now, I know it isn't your job," she's telling him, "but we haven't got a proper footman, really, and…"

Paying attention is getting difficult.

He hopes his smile isn't as taut and sharp as it feels. Never much luck there, though. "Certainly, milady."

"Oh, how wonderful," exclaims Lady Rose, breathlessly. She always talks like she's just run down the stairs. "But… won't Carson mind?"

"Not at all, milady, since you've asked in advance."

Her teeth poke at her lip. Her eyes sparkle.

Did he ever notice things like that, before?

Maybe York'll be nice. A day out, if not off.


	3. Chapter 3

It turns out to be a day off after all.

"Now you see why I made you change," Lady Rose says. She gestures _shhh,_ her finger to her lips, then darts off with a bloke about two heads taller than her, beaming.

_If she gets into trouble they'll all blame you._

She's grown.

And the last thing anybody at the Abbey would blame him for is getting a woman into trouble.

For now, at least.

(He doesn't know why he's still bothering with telling himself things like that, with how things've been.)

When he turns back around the chauffeur shrugs.

*

He's not in any condition to be trolling about York, is the problem. The city's a bore at the best of times. All he knows is where best to buy haberdashery and polishing cloths.

Not an hour away from where he's spent the last fifteen years, barring two, and that's everything that comes to mind. If he weren't in service… if he were _normal_ , if he hadn't been stuck in the same place for half his life just 'cause he can't get in anywhere else…

Well, he still wouldn't know much about York, but he might know more about Manchester.

*

Sunny day, though. Fine weather, even if he hasn't got anything to do.

He finds himself in a neighbourhood he _probably_ couldn't expect Lady Rose to know anything about—linens airing out in windows and back gardens, children with clothing either hemmed just before their wrists and ankles or full of tucks and patches… Must not be a school day, but then you never know, do you?

The men are working, he suspects, only to find a game of football in the park just round the corner.

Home used to look like this.

He wonders if it still would, now.

*

There are benches; he snags one and hopes that looking the way he knows he does he won't have to give it up—now he's seated he doesn't know he managed to walk so far as he did.

This could spell trouble, but no use worrying about it now.

He takes his hat off, sets it in his lap, closing his eyes, tilting his face toward the sun. If there weren't a whole bunch of blokes sweating in their shirtsleeves just across the road he'd've been more inclined to keep it on.

...Maybe he should've chosen a different bench.

*

 _It won't be at all the same_ , they'd said, one way or another, _what a normal man feels for a woman is higher and more natural than what you believe you've felt for others of your own sex…_

But it's never felt _un-_ natural, going after men. He doesn't even have a _problem_ with his going after men, really, though they made it clear that he _should_ have one, and maybe he's only fooling himself by thinking he doesn't because it has given him a load of grief in his life he'd never've had otherwise, but _men_ aren't the bloody _point_.

*

A man won't ever make him happy like a woman could, if he could only be happy with a woman to begin with.

 _That's_ the part that needs fixing. It shouldn't be hard. He's seen what medicine's capable of. And if getting it _fixed_ means he'll never look at a man the same way again then that's no skin off his back, because they never like him looking anyway.

Funny that he can think like that while sat on a park bench watching couples go by and wishing he was the one of them that he's meant to be ogling.

*

If he hadn't known so many men who'd married the Lady Somebody despite not caring for her nearly as much as they do the footman they've got in their bed, maybe he'd be more willing to up and make a go of it, feelings or no feelings...

But those chaps were all bloody miserable, even with perfect little children who wouldn't want for anything, even with wives who'd do whatever it took to make their husbands happy. And it's not a class thing neither, because he met plenty of blokes in the war who'd ended up in the same place.

*

The point stands that if he had any sense at all of what he was meant to be feeling for women this would all be much easier.

_Higher and more natural._

The wiry bodies and suntanned faces and forearms of the men on the field will definitely make him feel _natural_ later on, no doubt about that… or they would, if thinking about anything of that sort with the lights out didn't make him feel sick.

Now he only feels…

Numb, really.

Like his head's just a bit too light for his shoulders.

But, that isn't stopping him from _looking..._

*

Only he gets caught fast.

"Say– Barrow, isn't it?"

He's so shocked by the audacity—of him approaching, him _speaking_ —he forgets to pretend like he's somebody else.

"How do you–"

"We met at the station," the man says, kindly. He turns over his shoulder. Somebody else has followed him. "Few weeks back."

"Did we," Thomas says weakly.

Did he have such nice legs, then?

"Everybody you meet these days, you meet at the station," the friend sighs, eyeing him up and down very judgmentally as he approaches, in a way that reminds Thomas of…

Well.

This might be interesting.

*

It was only a matter of time.

They gave him plenty of reading material his first night. He doesn't remember half of it, a side effect you'd think they'd've worked out before giving him a bunch of things he was meant to remember, but he recalls some of the bits about When You Next Find Yourself Facing Temptation.

 _What can it hurt,_ part of him thinks.

The more intelligent (hopefully) remainder of his brain counters that with, _when has what-can-it-hurt ever, ever turned out the way you'd like it to._

"Er, sorry, Mr…"

"Webster," he says, assertive, assured. "Chris Webster."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content notes:** consensual sexual content

The next day he can't bring himself to do the injection— not because he's changed his mind, because he hasn't, he's not the sort of bloke who puts all he's got into things just to quit the first minute when he starts doubting himself, he's _not,_ never has been and never will be, but because he tugs down his trousers and finally understands what everybody else seems to have already decided, what he _knew_ was going on and going to happen but couldn't bring himself to actually care about: 

That he is really fucking ill.

Really, really, _really_ fucking ill.

*

"...I suspect you've narrowly avoided sepsis," Dr Clarkson's saying. He's looking at Thomas but Thomas is doing his best to avoid looking at him back. 

He's too busy thinking of all the men who never had the same luck, men who died in this very room.

Men he _watched_ die in this very room.

Maybe that's why the smell of disinfectant comforts him. If the wound is clean and the dressings are done up proper and the bloke has a hand to hold as he goes then it can't be Thomas's fault he's going.

"Mr Barrow… what were you _thinking_?"

*

Clarkson's got no right to be disappointed in him. He's not under his charge and hasn't been for six years. 

So why it hurts so much that he is...

For the first time in what feels like ever, Thomas has no answer. Not even one he can't say, a snippy retort that could roll off his tongue if he'd the gall to let it… just nothing. He shrugs, silent. 

When he looks up Clarkson seems like he's about to ask another question, but then he sighs, and doesn't. "I trust you remain familiar with the procedure for changing a dressing..."

*

Baxter doesn't let him out of the hospital til she's sure all the vials, pills and packets are in with the rubbish.

Every investment he's ever made has turned out like this one. Maybe he ought to stop trying to get more out of life than he already has. Accept his bloody burden.

Easier said than done. Clarkson doesn't know a thing about him or what he's feeling. He never has. If he were capable of it everything would be different.

Talking to the sexologists brought up everything in his past he's longed to forget...

Now he can't stop remembering.

*

He takes a half-day soon as he can.

In the breastpocket of his day suit is a little piece of paper with a name and an address scrawled on, scratchy penmanship, smudged. He should toss it. Instead he sets it upon his desk and continues dressing, sneaking glances at it every once in a while as if it'll disappear into thin air if he doesn't.

What use is it to him now?

_You're never in York,_ he reasons with himself as he does up his tie, _what's the point in keeping it?_

There must be one, though, 'cause he does.

*

The pink comes back to his lips and cheeks; the purple leaves the hollows of his eyes. He starts to sleep again. At every meal he eats a little more and doesn't want to choke after the first bite.

Strangely, what it most reminds him of is physiotherapy. Reach, flex, touch; grab, release, rest… only it's his whole body this time, not just his hand.

Upstairs nobody notices; downstairs people stop staring.

_People,_ except Baxter. When he comes across Dr Clarkson in the village they don't say more than 'good day'.

What was he trying to do before? Off himself?

*

_...I know I am a stranger to you and that our meetings came of coincidence and not anything else, but even so, I suspect we are alike and I should like to come to know you better, if I may. If you feel the same you may write back to me at my place of employment and residence:_

_Mr Thomas Barrow_

_Downton Abbey_

_Downton_

_Yorkshire_

_Regardless of that, you have helped me more than once now, and I owe you my gratitude. I trust you will let me know if I can do something in return._

_Faithfully yours,_

_Thomas Barrow_

*

They meet, and how it happens he couldn't say, exactly… but it feels _right,_ going to bed with him, letting him touch and kiss wherever he likes, wherever _Thomas_ likes. Letting him take his legs over his shoulders, letting him wrap his arms around him as he whimpers, holding him steady, murmuring. 

"That's it, I've got you…"

When the rush is over he returns the favour with trembling hands ( _one_ trembling hand), out of practise, but it doesn't matter; this isn't something you can forget, no matter what pills you take, no matter what has been sent through your veins.

*

"Was it… was it good, for you?"

"Mhm," Thomas says, cheek on Chris's chest, _relaxed,_ and not getting booted out the door for it.

He'd been afraid, seeing as he wasn't able to touch himself without losing either his head or his supper for weeks, hasn't even bothered trying, lately, but…

It _was_ good.

Better than he'd remembered.

"Good." Chris pauses. "Don't mind me asking, but…"

Suddenly nervous, Thomas pushes himself up, meets his eyes. Chris isn't bothering to keep the thoughts in his head off his face. 

It was refreshing, before. Now it's too much.

"...has somebody hurt you?"

*

"Why," he says.

"You've got bruises."

Healing ones… Still, he's yellow and green in places he shouldn't be, to say nothing of what's gonna be a nasty scar on his hip… Irritation bubbles up in him, but doesn't stay. When was the last time anybody ever asked him a question like that? "I've been sick," Thomas mumbles.

"You look better," says Chris. He doesn't say it pityingly, and when he reaches out to lay his hand on Thomas's cheek his gaze is kind. "I like the look of you."

"And I am, _better_ , but…"

Thomas breaks.

He tells him everything.

*

"...people used to think it had more to do with sex than anything," Chris continues, matter-of-fact, but gentle. "Whether you took it or gave it, and the like… sex and that's it."

Seated with him Thomas is comfortable. This he _had_ forgotten about: comfort. Having a place. Being something-in-particular for somebody else. It is so very easy to lean back with a cigarette in his mouth and the weight of a man's arms around his chest. Easy to wonder why he ever wanted anything different.

He _knows_ why.

Just not so painfully, now.

"People?"

"The Greeks had plenty to say…"

*

"...you don't strike me as the sort of bloke who'd…" 

Thomas can't finish his sentence; he shrugs. He puffs on his cigarette.

Chris chuckles. "Had a Carpenter type take interest when I was a lad," he tells him. "Learned some."

Apparently so.

"If it's something I _do_ ," Thomas says slowly, "and not something I _am_ , then– then why does it still bloody matter when I'm not taking a bloke to bed."

Chris kisses his head.

"Didn't say it _wasn't_ something you are, now, did I, Barrow," he says. "But there's more than one way of looking at it, isn't there."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more chapter & then an epilogue


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you everyone for the lovely nice comments <3 no energy to reply to most of them but ilya

It is, he decides. Something-he-is. He knew that already; he'd only tried to convince himself otherwise.

Chris has _friends_. Real ones, men of their own kind. The sort of people he used to know but hasn't for ages.

Friends. Now that he has these ones he can't tell if he's ever had any before, truly. It's different, sitting around other blokes with a bottle of beer in your hand and your jacket off and not needing to _pretend_ like you're just the same as they are.

It's different and it's better. Fresh air, even after he'd thought he'd already drowned.

*

They're everywhere, it turns out. He just didn't know the right places to look.

There's Chris, of course, loading railway cars all over Yorkshire, and Eustace, who keeps a shop, Francis, who does ladies' hair, Michael's at the chocolate factory, Tony's a plumber, Vivian's a schoolteacher, Dick's in service at the _Royal Household_ …

And through them there are still others.

No wonder he was so bloody miserable. The only men he'd known before any of this happened only ever seemed interested in seeing him from the back, not in _knowing_ him. Let alone caring. 

But these people are. They do.

*

He apologises to Baxter.

Feels worse than pulling his own teeth would, he suspects, but he can't actually tell if that feeling's the fact that he's saying he's sorry for his actions or that he did them in the first place.

"...only you helped me, even after I harmed you, and…"

She takes his hand and squeezes it hard, her eyes wet. He's so shocked he doesn't try to pull it back, doesn't try to take it away.

He's off his guard more and more lately…

"I am, too," she says, looking at him intently. "So sorry."

"What've _you_ done?"

*

The conversation sticks in his head.

 _I didn't do enough,_ she'd told him.

As if he still minds about any of that. It's been years. What's got her caring now all of the sudden when she never did before?

He keeps asking himself that question, over and over, because she keeps bloody _doing_ things, pretending like she actually minds how he's feeling, and…

Well, it doesn't make any sense that she would. He owes _her_ now, not the other way round. But, she's showing she'll look out for him, if she has to, so he'd better do the same back.

*

At times he almost forgets he's only doing it to even the score. He wouldn't say he has good intentions, because that's not it, but– 

–but maybe it is a little. He went so long with nobody around him willing to see that he _could_ have them that he started agreeing... only he can, and he does. He's good (or better than _some people_ , at least) at looking after people if he's got to. 

The point is, he knows what he's doing, and people are finally starting to let him do it.

Even if they'll never believe he means it.

*

They get to be friends, almost. It's easier now he's got others. 

It turns out _many_ things are easier when you've got people who care about you outside the ones you live and work with—people who care, full stop, because nobody at _Downton_ ever did before. He's not satisfied with things, exactly, he still has to get up every day and do his job and pretend like it's all he's ever wanted to do with his life, like nothing else will ever make him as happy as service can… 

But it's more bearable now, than it used to be.

*

"Don't you ever wish you weren't, though?"

"Used to..."

Frost crunches beneath their feet.

For all the years he's been at Downton (almost _fifteen_ ) he's never enjoyed himself on the estate like this.

Makes him feel invincible—like sneaking out of Grantham House at night to meet up with _His Grace,_ back in the day, only now it's a cold afternoon and they're deep in the woods, everything glimmering in the winter sun, no need to worry about who's lurking round the corner…

"...But not anymore."

"Why?"

"Realised it's everybody else who ought to change," Chris says simply. "Not us."

*

Somehow he'll make the pieces fit, find a way to have _both,_ or at least (this one's more likely) learn not to want the things he can't have so much it nearly kills him.

"No shame in wanting," murmurs Chris one night, hand rubbing Thomas's back, lips at his crown. The last coach back to Downton will be going sooner than either of them want, but they'll have next month for sure, sneak time in between if Chris can make it up again… "'S a good thing; it keeps the fire going."

To keep warm, but not to get burnt.

*

He'd forgotten exactly how much _drama_ men-like-them get up to when you stick them all in a room together…. It only happens every so often— he can't always make it to York, somebody else has got the same problem, and everybody local has their own lives— but when it does it's like what the fucking London Season used to be.

He'd forgotten exactly how much he loved it.

"Hey, play nice," says Chris one evening, just when things are starting to get interesting, "it's not every day Thomas makes it down."

"Oh, you think _I_ mind?" Thomas interrupts, unabashedly gleeful.

*

"Not every day I make it up," Dick returns, eyebrows raised. "I take my chances as they come."

Thomas can't think there aren't more _chances_ in _London_ than _York…_ still, it's entertaining, watching him and Vivian argue for the sake of arguing. 

"Don't encourage it," Chris whispers in his ear, as if Thomas hasn't been around for this several times before. "They'll bite each other's heads off, and then where will we be…"

Well, still curled up together on a sofa, probably, so Thomas has no horse in the race.

He kisses him to make up for it. Tony whistles.

*

"...Mind you keep that word out of your mouth," Dick says, steelly, "there's a time and a place for that damned talk, and–"

"Oi, both of you–" 

"Dearie me, listen to him, as if he doesn't change the _times and places_ as it suits; London's gotten to your fucking head, Dicky–"

Well.

This part's less fun. Just when Chris is about to properly intervene there's a knock at the door— Michael jumps up to get it; everybody else shuts up.

There's always the fear that…

"Oh, thank _God,_ " Vivian says as Francis enters, "you're the only thing he'll stop for…"

*

"...every one of 'em thinks she'll be the next _Colleen Moore_."

"He's only jealous he can't get away with tresses himself," Dick stage-whispers. 

Francis, looking very comfortable on Dick's lap, scowls. "The women in this country left good taste in the last century."

"You're Rapunzel in my heart, love..."

"Doesn't she get hers hacked off?" Thomas says, unthinkingly.

They all laugh. If pressed, Thomas doesn't think he could remember the last time anybody laughed at a thing he'd said before meeting this lot.

Chris tugs him closer.

Dick watches, grinning. "But she still gets her happily ever after, doesn't she?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the epilogue might end up being longer than the rest of the story combined asgjlksajlf but if it is and it takes a while this is, i think, a functional ending for now!!!
> 
> edit september 6 2020: the epilogue got long enough that it is now Its Very Own Fic ! :-3

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on tumblr as [@combeferre](https://combeferre.tumblr.com) as always


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